


Just a Little More

by SLWalker



Series: Arch to the Sky [52]
Category: due South
Genre: Arch to the Sky, Chicago (1998), Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-08
Updated: 2011-09-08
Packaged: 2017-10-23 13:06:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>April 1998: Turnbull goes back to Chicago, after his ill-advised attempt at politics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Little More

_No,_ he thought, standing in the doorway of his apartment. It was a defiance of poor definition; he was not sure why he thought it, but he _felt it_ and that was the important part.

His apartment had not been rented while he was back in Leaside, and as he stood in the doorway, the pointlessness of the emptiness made him feel decidedly fierce. He had packed it all up. Now, he was going to unpack it again. Chicago had not felt like coming home, exactly, but it had felt better than Toronto had, and his little bedsit was _his_ at least.

Turnbull huffed a soft breath through his nose, then started when one of his neighbors passed behind his back, offering a gentle pat on his shoulder. Even with the startle, though, he found himself smiling at the sight of Mrs. Ritchy making her slow, determined way down the hall back towards her own apartment. Whenever his cookware arrived -- never having been unboxed -- he would have to make her those lemon bars she so preferred.

He looked back at his apartment again.

The grin that came up on him was unexpected, but it felt good anyway.

 

 

He could still feel some bruises, but more annoyingly, the healing road rash itched. Mostly his shoulder had taken the brunt of it and his suit had buffered him -- some use, that irritating thing had, at least -- but where his skin had been scraped was mostly healed now and the scabs were driving him a little crazy. Occasionally a headache would steal up on him from the concussion, and occasionally he would wince when he moved wrong, but he was healing very well and quickly enough to return to work.

Now, he moved around his apartment, occasionally pausing to rub his jersey-clad shoulder against the doorframe to his kitchen like a bear, unpacking what he was able to carry onto the plane. He'd be sleeping on bare mattress tonight, but... well, needs must.

The decision to leave Leaside again had been met with displeasure by Roddy, tentative hope by Reggie, and relief by Myra. He understood. She would miss him, but after a collision with a campaign bus, and Renfield's general misery at the entire affair, there would be no denying that he was not political material. Interacting with the public had been painful, for that unwitting insincerity; it was hard to smile and mean it, when you were wearing the wrong skin.

It had broken in the hospital. Unexpectedly. He was sitting there, sore and a little dizzy and waiting to be released, more than mildly uncomfortable in the setting, and then Reg came in and sat next to him and asked, "You were hit by your own _bus_?" in a voice Renfield knew was unique to their family. Their mother's tones, a tie between them and Myra that was coded into them from childhood.

Renfield wasn't sure what came over him then, but he started laughing. And after a half-second's surprise, Reg had looked at him and laughed, too, and they ended up laughing in that half-hysteria until, for the first time in his memory, Reggie leaned over, kissed his little brother on the side of the head -- despite Renfield's startle of surprise -- and apologized.

He had never really understood the twins, nor had they ever really understood him; the gap between their ages was so great and their lives so different that neither side really felt any true need to connect. Renfield didn't miss them, and knew he wasn't missed, but for that moment they were brothers and standing in the surreal parody of their lives, together.

Renfield had needed that laugh. God knew, he had been living a parody of his own life for a long time, and to finally acknowledge it in some manner so outward was...

He was not certain what it was.

Necessary, certainly.

He could not even summon so much anger at having been maneuvered into that ill-advised campaign. Reg took over for him, despite Roddy's displeasure, and Renfield hoped he would make it. Reginald was far better suited for such things, anyway.

Renfield Turnbull said goodbye, and came back to Chicago his own man; even lost, just a little more found.

 

 

"Yes, Inspector. Monday morning."

 _"Very good,"_ Thatcher's voice answered, and, because she was who she was, she could not resist adding a strident, _"Please arrange transport for your personal belongings as soon as possible; this Consulate is not a storage shed."_

"Of course, sir."

 _"Welcome back, Turnbull."_

Turnbull hung up the phone with a shake of his head and a half-grin, then went back to reorganizing.

 

 

He had not carried on much. His clothes, mostly; uniforms, personal clothes, a book he had tried and failed to read on the plane, a few toiletries he refused to go without, and his stuffed husky. He went out to pick up some basic groceries before he forgot that he had no cookware; left with no choice, he found the cleanest restaurant within walking distance and ordered carry-out. Then he came back and finished neatening up.

The second to last thing he put into place was his duty uniform. There was no ignoring the spike of ache that caught his breath short as he put it in the closet next to his red serge; no ignoring the pain that came with the texture of the fabric, still familiar as his own skin, under his fingers.

Even so, he rubbed his thumb over the shoulder flash, lips pressed tight against the ache, and then let it go.

The last thing was his husky. There was a little discoloration on it, years old now, where a certain miscreant had accidentally bumped his tea into it. A loose thread he would repair, when he got the rest of his belongings back. It still smelled faintly of Myra, where she had picked it up out of his carry-on bag in Leaside and held it, stroking its fur, a small smile on her face.

Turnbull stretched out on his mattress, tucking it into his arm, and closed his eyes.

It was the first time in quite some time that he fell asleep in something one step closer towards peace.


End file.
